A Miracle Every Day
by Katie-Mariie
Summary: In Vietnam Era, a young runaway finds his way home. Albeit kicking and screaming. SLASH, drug use, very bad things. Faint of heart stay away.
1. Some Kind of Beautiful

Title: Some Kind of Beautiful Author: Katie Email: meboja90@yahoo.com Fandom: MASH Pairing: OMC/OMC, and one mystery implication Series: A Miracle Everyday Warnings: Drug use, swearing, mild violence, mild sexual content, mild prostitution, statutory rape, prejudice slurs. Rating: R Archive: To lists, everybody else can ask. Disclaimer: I own everyone mentioned with a name. The implied are owned by somebody else. Summary: In Vietnam era, a runaway is brought back to whom he ran from. A/N: This is relevant to MASH. I promise. An actual canon character shows up next chapter. Dedication: To my mommy. She lived this out. Minus the penis. Plus a schizophrenic husband.  
  
---  
  
Jen traced his vein up and down his arm with the needle. He figured it like skating on thin ice-- you never know when the plunge is going to come. He halted his game and made a clear incision. Jen savored the pain for a second, pulled back and saw the blood mix with the clear liquid. His teeth let go of the belt, and infused the drug. He could feel the coolness enveloping his body, making him whole again. He lay there, just to feel the rush.  
  
A knock thumped on the bathroom door. "In a minute," Jen yelled. He grabbed his things and opened the door. A grubby guy with long hair stood on the other side. "Yes?" Jen asked.  
  
"You got any 'shrooms?" the guy asked, groggily.  
  
"Why don't you try Sal?"  
  
"Sal left, man." The guy trudged over to the toilet and sat down.  
  
"What?"  
  
The guy started sniffing shampoo bottles. "Yeah... he said the police were trailin' him, man."  
  
"Shit! He was my ride to Idaho!"  
  
"Tough luck, kid. Hey... maybe you get a ride with Cecil. He's goin' to Ohio."  
  
Jen leaned against the wall. "Where's he at?"  
  
"I dunno, man."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Jen walked through the hall and to the kitchen. A wave of smoke clogged his lungs; he peered through the fog and saw about a dozen people sitting around a table. "Hey, you see Cecil anywhere?"  
  
The group looked up. "Yeah... he said something about goin' outside..." a blonde girl, who Jan was certain he fucked last night, answered.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Jen walked pass the table and slid the glass door open. The night was cool, but after sleeping outside for several months, Jen could bear it. His eyes searched the spacious backyard, and didn't see Cecil anywhere. He noticed a record cover lying on the lawn table. "Shit, Cecil. What did you take?" Jen mumbled. He meandered over to the table, bringing the powder and papers into view.  
  
Jen got nervous. He knew that if Cecil just snorted angel dust, he should immobile right now. This could turn out badly.  
  
A falling leaf flicked against the nape of his neck, making him turn toward the tree. Jen gasped. In the periphery of his vision, Jen saw the pool and the floating body of Cecil Arcadia.  
  
---  
  
Sweat dripped down Jen's face, cooling with the night air. His bones ached, and his heart stung, yet his knowledge told him to keep running. He was a dead duck, if he were found anywhere near that body. The neighbors would probably call the police and that dumbass Ivan would I.D. Jen and tell them he was going to California and... they would catch him and send him home.  
  
Jen felt as if was in a constant race with himself. A race to get away from home, a race to get away from the party, a race to get away from himself. He was always on the run. Whether it by car, truck, or foot, Jen was always going somewhere else. Somewhere Else was never a designated destination, just "not here, not home."  
  
He usually knew someone in Somewhere Else. Or knew someone who knew someone in Somewhere Else. He found Cecil's place in New Hampshire through these two dairy farmers in Vermont, who said this guy Sal was there who was going to Idaho. Jen was looking to go to San Francisco and hit Berkley and Haight Street, and if Sal would get him to Idaho, he would be almost there. So, Jen hitchhiked to some one-horse burg, where he met Ivan who was going to Concord and needed a hook-up. Jen assured him that Cecil was very generous and would hook him up. Luckily for Ivan and Jen, Cecil *was* very generous.  
  
Jen continued running, wondering whom else he knew on the Eastern Seaboard. There was Rona, the introverted factory worker from New York, but she moved to Tallahassee. Paul in Connecticut was incarcerated. Samara in Rhode Island ran to Canada. There were people up north but Jesus would have to come back before he stayed with them. It looks like Bench Boulevard, Jen grimaced.  
  
Jen slowed to a walk. He turned left and surveyed the park area. The benches were all taken at this hour, so he found a cozy spot at the top of a slide. He slipped his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around his pocketknife. Jen never knew what he might need protection from.  
  
---  
  
Jen's thumb stood erect for twenty minutes, while he walked backward. He made his way to the interstate, and planned to hitch a ride westward bound. He prayed that some friends would pass and pick him up. Jen didn't think it was likely, though. It's do-or-die again, he thought. It was one the situations where he had to sell what he had to keep himself. It was either do that, or go home. And like hell was he going home.  
  
Jen didn't care what degrading act he participated in. It was all the same, morality aside. He could go back to the white picket fence and Mommy and Step-Daddy. Or he could do what he really wanted, and shoot heroin up his fucking arm. Both arenas were of equal fantasy, and he might as well enjoy his ride.  
  
A semi tracker trailer pulled up three yards away from Jen. He walked up to the cab, putting on his best game face. The burly driver opened the door and leered. He gave Jen the once over and said, "You lookin' for a ride?"  
  
"Yeah," Jen said, smirking. He climbed in and slammed the door. "Where you headed?"  
  
"Maine," the driver said, staring the machine up.  
  
"What's in Maine?"  
  
"Tanner Cannery. I make deliveries to New York. Only the finest fish for them."  
  
"Great. I'm going west, but I'm a little strapped for cash. Does Tanner have any openings?"  
  
"Always a few, but I could put a good word in for you," the truck driver said, unzipping his pants.  
  
"That would be great." Jen mustered up his courage and...  
  
Jen wasn't like his dad, though. Hell, no. He did this to survive, not because he was some fairy. He wasn't some corporate phony who bent over for every man willing. He wasn't like his mom, some fucking whore so desperate for love that she'll pay for it. Jen wasn't like either of them. He just wanted to get away.  
  
---  
  
Gene, the trucker dropped Jen off at the Sinclair two blocks from the shore. Jen studied the town, taking the friendly vibe it gave off. It reminded him of the idyllic civilizations the Children of the Land described, except, here nobody want him to donate all of his material belongings to Mother Earth. He took a breath of the salty air and set off toward the ocean.  
  
Jen had seen the Atlantic before, but he had never seen a fishing town. The hub of the village was the ocean. Unlike the dunes he visited as a child, the water wasn't for tourism, but for survival. Back then; they used the lake for water, yet it was taken for granted. In this small community, the people lived for the Atlantic. It was a phenomenon new to Jen.  
  
He wandered into the cannery, recoiling at the scent of metal and salty seafood. The factory was buzzing with activity; no one noticed Jen. He walked over to the back, where a small office stood. He could see through the glass that no one was busy. He knocked twice, and a tough-looking fellow opened the door.  
  
"Whad do yah need, kid?" he asked in a thick accent.  
  
Jen tried to mimic it, but couldn't point his finger on the rule. "I was lookin' for a temporary job. I wander if yaw need any help?"  
  
"We got a few openings. Have yah worked in a factary before? Ah, don't matteh. We got a good guy in packaging, he'll show yah the ropes."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Jen turned to leave when the man in the office called back to him. "Whehe's that accent from, kid?"  
  
"All over, sir. All over."  
  
---  
  
Gil Hardeay was a small fellow, but his presence was bigger than his mass. He was tan, and had black hair and even blacker eyes. Jen noticed his limp right away, and how it made Gil even rougher. He also noticed that Gil could see what would happen before it occurred. Like, once, when a conveyer belt jammed and the crates were about to spill off, Gil's arms were out to block the mess. It was as if he was apart of the machine.  
  
"Yo, Gil," Jen shouted over the machines. It was his third day at the cannery and was not getting used to the noises.  
  
"Yeah," Gil replied, nailing a crate closed.  
  
"Um..." Jen's palms were sweating. He didn't know if Gil would welcome him or be repulsed.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
The younger man slid next to the other, and said, in a hushed tone, "Do you know where to score?"  
  
Gil snickered. "What are you looking for?"  
  
"Heroin."  
  
"I know a guy who dedicates himself to designers. He's having a party at his mom's house tonight. Mostly for him to laid. Gonna be lots of chicks. But you wouldn't mind that, would you?"  
  
Jen leered.  
  
"I guess not. We'll head over after we punch out."  
  
---  
  
The house screamed Americana. It was like Ozzie and Harriet found a house in Maine. Jen felt guilty for destroying that image.  
  
He and Gil sat out on the front lawn, tearing grass from the earth. "How'd you hurt your leg?" Jen asked.  
  
"Ever heard of the Perfume River?" Gil answered, mid-toke.  
  
"In Vietnam?"  
  
He nodded. "I got shot in a tree. I fell and killed my knee."  
  
"Damn."  
  
"You're telling me," Gil said, passing the joint.  
  
Jen inhaled. Pot wasn't his drug of choice, but it eased his withdrawal nausea. Turns out the host couldn't tell cacao from cocoa. He puffed the smoke into the night sky.  
  
"What's your birthday," Gil asked.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"When they play bingo with birthdays, I'll look out for you." Gil tousled Jen's hair.  
  
"September 12th. But you won't find me up there anytime soon."  
  
"Why's that? Make a deal with the devil?"  
  
Jen laughed. "I'm-I'm fifteen."  
  
"Really," Gil pulled the hair out of Jen's face. "You do not look fifteen. You do not act fifteen."  
  
Jen realized how close his body was to Gil's.  
  
"I-I..."  
  
"You're alright."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Jen never kissed another man before. The truckers weren't that sentimental, and were primarily in it for the head. It wasn't like kissing girls, though. With girls it was rough and primal, rushed into the action. With Gil it was... pleasant. It was comfortable.  
  
Jen knew what happened next. He ran his hand down Gil's stomach and to his zipper. The zip noise awoke Gil from his lethargic state. "What are you doing?"  
  
"I-I..." Wasn't this what he wanted?  
  
Gil stood up. "Get away from me. Fucking faggot." He began kicking Jen's left shoulder. Jen lay like a log. Gil spit on him and stalked off.  
  
Jen couldn't move. Jen couldn't call for help. All Jen could do was try not to hate himself.  
  
Gil was right; he was a fucking faggot. 


	2. Rubber Bullet Kisses

Title: Rubber Bullet Kisses  
  
Like so many mornings before, Jen woke up not knowing where he was. He was on a sofa in a living room somewhere. Perhaps in that house. He hoped that maybe Gil felt guilty and brought him in. But Jen knew that was impossible. He and Gil were of the same confusion, and Jen would not have helped Gil if the roles were reversed.  
  
A teakettle whistled in the distance. A lurched figure hurried into where Jen guessed the kitchen was. He supposed that the figure was that of a middle-aged man. Jen didn't have to wonder what happened last night. He knew that he had to leave now, before the guy's wife or family got back from whereever. He attempted to turn to his side, but was met with sharp pain in his shoulder. Jen couldn't help sniveling. The man's footsteps approached, and Jen hurried off the couch, despite the pain.  
  
"Whoa there, tiger," the guy said, walking in the room. He looked about fifty, his hair graying. He was lanky, but set off a good-natured vibe. Still...  
  
"Uh-uh, I gotta get going," he muttered. Jen tried to dodge the older man. The elder gripped his shoulders, haltingly. Their physical contact made Jen queasy.  
  
"Buddy, you've—"  
  
"What happened last night has occurred a thousand times before. I'm cool. I'm not gonna ask you to tell your wife or want to move in. I'm just gonna leave. Okay?"  
  
The other male looked confused. "What? Wha-What are you talking about?"  
  
"Last night," Jen mumbled. "Y'know."  
  
"I found you lying on the ground across the street. Somebody dislocated you shoulder in the process of kicking the shit out of you. I have no clue what else you're blabbering about."  
  
Jen glanced down at his shoes.  
  
"C'mon. Sit down."  
  
Jen obeyed.  
  
"Listen. I know what goes on over at Brian Detmer's. I helped him after his first bout with bad coke. And I've been around probably three times as long as you have; I've seen everything and then some. Tell me who beat you up."  
  
Jen didn't know why he felt he could trust this stranger, but he did. And for the first time in ages, he told the truth. "I-I was with this guy and I got too fresh and..."  
  
"It's okay. You don't have to tell me anymore." He sighed. "Well, I can't do much for you now. I'm not going to prescribe you anything, because you are able of doing that yourself." He pointed to the numerous incision marks on Jen's arm. "But, I'll give you a ride. To where do you wander?"  
  
Jen thought for a moment. He had enough cash to get to Ohio. "Is there a Greyhound around here?"  
  
---  
  
"How old are you, kid? Eighteen? Nineteen?" the elder asked, as they cruised down Maple Street.  
  
"Fifteen."  
  
He whistled. "Kids are growing up fast. Pretty soon you'll have your very own draft board."  
  
Jen snickered.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Don'tcha think Vietnam will be over by then?"  
  
"Eh. They say it will, but they said Korea would be done by 'next Christmas.'"  
  
"You were in Korea?"  
  
"Me and every other guy with hair on their... chest."  
  
Jen laughed. "So, you were in the shit?"  
  
"Naw, naw. I was a field doctor."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"What?"  
  
"My dad was too."  
  
"Where at? I might have known him."  
  
"I don't remember. He died when I was seven."  
  
"I'm sorry. How'd he go?"  
  
"Car crash."  
  
That was the story Jen decided on when he first ran off.  
  
"Damn shame. My mom died of cancer when I was young. It took my dad last year. Kind of ironic," he chuckled. "So, where does the rabbit hole take you?"  
  
"California. I've never lived anywhere but flatlands."  
  
"You'll get to see the sunset of the Pacific. It's a site."  
  
"You've been there?"  
  
"I flew into San Francisco from Hawaii at the right time. It was beautiful."  
  
"Why don't you go back?"  
  
"I've got roots here."  
  
"That must be nice."  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
Jen stared out the window. The car passed a sign welcoming them into Millcreek.  
  
"How much longer, Doctor...?"  
  
"Pierce. Hawkeye Pierce. After 'Last of the Mohicans.' Only five more minutes...?"  
  
"Jen."  
  
Hawkeye laughed. "Is that some sort of Flower Power name?"  
  
"No. I was named after a General, so they call me 'Jen.'"  
  
"Which one? Custer? Jackson?"  
  
"McArthur."  
  
"Ech."  
  
"You're telling me. 'Douglas Arthur Burns,' pshaw."  
  
Hawkeye slammed the breaks. "Douglas Burns?"  
  
"Yeah..."  
  
"You're Dougie Burns?"  
  
Oh, shit. 


	3. If I Had A Gun, There'd Be No Tomorrow

Title: If I Had a Gun, There'd Be No Tomorrow Author: Katie E-mail: Fandom: MASH Pairing: Frank/? Rating: R Series: A Miracle Everyday Warning: Drug implications, swearing, slurs, sexual references. Disclaimer: I own Jen and his stepdad. Everyone else is somebody else's. I don't own the Barenaked Ladies. Archive: To lists, all others ask. Summary: In Vietnam Era, a runaway is brought back to whom he ran from. Notes: "Tooter" is hippie slang for someone who snorts drugs. For example, "My dad lost his sense of smell from being a tooter." Thanks to Mommy for that gem. Also, the title comes from a Barenaked Ladies' song.  
  
"You don't have to do this, y'know," Jen spat, bitterly. "It's not like I want to go back."  
  
Hawkeye glared at him and turned back onto the main road. "Do you know how worried your parents are?"  
  
Jan snickered. "What parents? Do you mean the slut and the fruitcake?"  
  
"So, I see you get those attributes from your folks."  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"Don't you wish?"  
  
"Who the hell are you anyway? One of those Neighborhood Watch cronies? Or one of my father's sodomite friends?"  
  
"I met your father in Korea."  
  
"Old war buddies. How pleasant."  
  
Hawkeye snickered.  
  
"Don't tell me you two were..."  
  
"No. No! Frank Burns was—is the bane of my existence."  
  
"At least you don't have to know he's part of you. Just thinking that prick is my father makes me sick."  
  
"Frank may be responsible for half of your genetic make-up, but he doesn't have to control your every move."  
  
"What makes you think he does?"  
  
"You ran off because of him. You started shooting because of him. I bet you tried to fuck that guy last night because of him."  
  
"Shut your goddamn mouth," Jen said, tightening his muscles.  
  
Hawkeye smiled. "You got Daddy's temper, too."  
  
Jen grated his teeth. "I hate you."  
  
"So do I, kid."  
  
---  
  
Jen sat on Hawkeye's couch with his shoulders slumped over. The old man was making phone calls to milk carton makers or whoever to report him no longer. He thought of running, but that was useless. The fuzz knew he was in Maine and his shoulder hurt like a bitch. However, he knew a special medicine that would take care of that. If only he could get his hands on some.  
  
A familiar nausea edged through Jen's stomach. He doubled over and pinched his knee.  
  
Hawkeye stretched the phone cord from the kitchen into the living room. "Yes, it is a blessing I found him. Uh huh," he said charismatically. "He's right here. Yeah. He'd love to talk to you." Hawkeye reached the phone out to Jen.  
  
"Go to Hell!" the adolescent yelled.  
  
Hawk put the phone back to his ear. "He's feeling a little fatigued right now. I bet when he gets back, he'll be as happy as a lark."  
  
Jen flipped Hawk the bird. The elder returned the favor.  
  
"He's a sweet boy. Just like the pictures. A little taller, but pretty much the same. Well, you've got arrangements to make... I'll be here when you call back. All right. Take care. Bye." He hung up the phone and sat next to Jen.  
  
"You lied. I look nothing like on the flyers. Why?"  
  
Hawkeye sighed. "A mother doesn't want to know that her little boy has hair down to his ass and is practically a beanpole from being such a tooter."  
  
"She's gonna find out eventually... if I decide to go back."  
  
"When she sees you, she's going to be so happy she won't even notice."  
  
"You obviously have never met my mother."  
  
"Believe me, she'll care."  
  
"All she cares about is what the people at the country club think."  
  
"She might be different. A lot can change in three years."  
  
"Do I sense a bit of veteran angst?"  
  
"No, actually I was referring to a little boy turning into an addict."  
  
"You're such a fucking hypocrite! You smell like my stepfather after the Lions lose!"  
  
Hawkeye stood up in protest. "And Douglas is never one bit a charlatan. Never little Dougie Burns. Not the boy who condemned his father for being homosexual and feels up guys on Mrs. Detmer's lawn."  
  
Dazedly, Jen got up and put his face to Hawkeye's. Mano y mano. "At least, I'm not a war-time lush."  
  
"I'm not the one on trial here, boy."  
  
Jen gripped his stomach. "I'm not either, it's my fucking pare—"  
  
Jen took that time to vomit on Hawk's shirt.  
  
Hawkeye glanced at the boy and groaned, "I couldn't say it any better myself." 


	4. There's Things Half in Shadow, and HalfW...

There's Things Half in Shadow, Half Way in Light  
  
Hawkeye rubbed Jen's back and held his hair. The boy had been hunched over the toilet for twenty minutes. He hated being sick. It showed weakness and Jen hated looking weak. He took in a gasp of air and... that was all of the torment his body could give him. Jen leaned up against the bathtub and managed to sit. "I bet you're enjoying this," he said to Hawkeye, breathing raggedly.  
  
Hawk gave Jen a wet washcloth. "Watching people throw up—the stuff of dreams."  
  
The boy wiped his mouth. "You like seeing others vulnerability. You feed on it. You're like those cult-leaders who take advantage of little girls. You're a skinny, little creep."  
  
Hawkeye sat down level to Jen. "You sound just like your father. All conspiracy theories and degeneration."  
  
"There you go again. Jabbing me where it hurts."  
  
"You're smart, Douglas. You could have been a great psychiatrist if you wouldn't have taken an extended vacation on cloud nine."  
  
"Do you enjoy proving my point?"  
  
"Immensely."  
  
"Do you always push people away like this?"  
  
"Like how?"  
  
"Using your intelligence to belittle people or your cynicism to higher yourself?"  
  
Hawkeye walked into the hallway, Jen followed.  
  
"Your father was the same way. When something bad happened he would joke over it. When your mother died, that's what he did. When the doctors found the cancer, he made some snide remark about the decline of bed-side manner."  
  
Hawk turned and pressed Jen against the wall. "Listen, you perverted, little snot, you may have more neurosis theories than Freud, but don't you ever bring my father into it."  
  
The doctor walked away, but Jen stayed at the wall. "You can dish it out, yet you can't take it," he called.  
  
"It's you I can't take," Hawkeye yelled from the kitchen table.  
  
Jen entered the room. "You don't like me."  
  
"Ding, ding, ding. We've got a winner."  
  
Jen grinned. "I'm your foil."  
  
"Is this some hippy fencing metaphor I don't understand?"  
  
"I am at an equal intellectual level to that of you."  
  
Hawkeye guffawed. "You think you are as smart as me?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Surely, you jest."  
  
"I jest at scars that never felt a wound, but not at this. I have bested you in arguments and you have bested me."  
  
"What are you implying? A stalemate?"  
  
"Exactly. We are unfortunately sequestered in close contact for some time. I think we should make the best of it."  
  
"Are you suggesting friendship?"  
  
"I'm suggesting not verbally decapitating each other."  
  
"A fine proposal, young man."  
  
And at that they shook hands.  
  
The phone ringing broke the clasp. "B.F. Pierce, Country Doctor and official mortician. Oh, Louise!"  
  
Jen sighed and slumped into a chair.  
  
"He's doing good. Medically?" Hawk paused. "He's thin. And he needs a trip to the dentist. But as far as I can see, he's fine. Do you wanna? Are you sure you want to talk to him? No, I don't mean to be a tease. Serious psychological studies have been made about this. If someone present at the time of the runaway contacts him, he's ten times more likely to run again. Yeah. Freud. I thought so, too. But he's German. All right. You try calling him again. Bye. Bye-bye. Take care. See ya."  
  
Hawkeye slouched into his chair. "Man, she is a piece of work."  
  
Jen nodded. "Why am I not chatting with her?"  
  
"You're not ready yet."  
  
"When do I have to go back?"  
  
"I don't know. Your mom hasn't been able to contact Frank, and you can't move without both of their consent."  
  
"So, I'm stuck here forever."  
  
"Until they decide what to do."  
  
"This blows."  
  
"It certainly does. But you're welcome to anything in the interim."  
  
Jen stared at his hands. "Thanks."  
  
"She really shook you up."  
  
The boy didn't move.  
  
"Well." Hawkeye coughed and looked at his watch. "I've got maternity check- up with Mrs. Lucas. Twins. I'll be back around two. There's cold cuts in the fridge."  
  
"How do you know I won't leave?"  
  
"Where are you gonna go?"  
  
---  
  
When Hawkeye came back, Jen was sitting on the couch, watching the television. He looked numb.  
  
"Casualties mount overseas," the TV sounded, "and a small orphanage run by Andrea Craddy was overtaken by—"  
  
Hawk turned of the set. "You don't need to hear this." He sat next to Jen. "Did she call again?"  
  
"No," he muttered weakly.  
  
"Did you have lunch?"  
  
"Don't have much of an appetite."  
  
"You're gonna eat. C'mon." He pulled Jen off the sofa and into the kitchen. "Many studies have shown that chicken noodle soup increases—"  
  
"Hawkeye," Jen mumbled. "Can you look at this?"  
  
Pierce turned around. Jen lifted his hand from his elbow crook. A dark red splotch stained his sleeve.  
  
"Jesus, kid."  
  
Jen sank to the floor. "I'm a jackass."  
  
Hawkeye joined him. "No. You're the product of a fucked-up divorce."  
  
"I'm the cause of a fucked-up divorce."  
  
"I have an innate feeling that your father's latent homosexuality was the cause."  
  
Jen chortled.  
  
"Why'd you do it, Doug?"  
  
"I thought it would feel good. Like a hypodermic needle going through the skin."  
  
"You didn't want to die?"  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"When most people do it, they're trying to kill themselves."  
  
"I'm not suicidal." Jen spat defensively. "That's fucking pathetic, man. Only kamikazes and psychopaths off themselves." The boy stormed out so quickly, he didn't notice Hawkeye examining his own self-induced cuts. 


	5. Ask Me No More Questions, Tell Me No Mor...

Title: A Miracle Every Day 5/?

Ch. Title: Ask Me No More Questions, Tell Me No More Lies

Author: Katie

Email: 

Fandom: MASH  
Pairing: Frank/?  
Rating: R  
Warning: swearing, slurs, sexual references.  
Disclaimer: I own Jen. Everybody else belongs to somebody else.  
Summary: In Vietnam Era, a runaway is brought back to whom he ran from.

Jen peeked into the kitchen. Hawkeye was still in there, but he was joined by a scotch. Jen figured that was the perfect time. Hawkeye didn't appear to be going anywhere fast.

Jen crept down the hallway, and into what looked like Hawkeye's room. It had all the relics of childhood, including a hand-made bunk bed. In fact, all the toys inside looked hand-made. The only touch of an adult Hawkeye was a faded bathrobe. Jen picked it up and sniffed. It smelled like Hawkeye and the Tom Collins you can buy at the pharmacy. Next the robe was worn medical bag. Bingo.

Jen figured that Hawkeye, as a doctor, would have something stronger than Tylenol in his possession. He did, but none were in the medical bag. The medical bag held something completely different—pictures.

Jen opened the bag, rifled around a bit, until something caught his eye. The photograph was grimy and creased—nothing special. But Jen's dad was in it. So was Hawkeye. There were six others in it, as well. A blonde woman. A priest. A man wearing a fishing hat. A blonde man. A woman—no, a man, wearing a dress. And, a boy, who looked about Jen's age.

Jen flipped the picture over. On the back, it read "KOREA 1950".

Something in Jen's head clicked.

He reached the kitchen like his life depended on it. Hawkeye was sitting in the same place, a bit out of it.

"Which one is he?" Jen demanded, shoving the picture in front of Hawk's face.

"What? Who?"

"Which one of them is it?"

"Kid, I don't know what you're talking about."

"I heard when he told her!"

"Told who what?"

"I heard when Frank told my mom about him. He said they met in Korea, in-in 1950! He has to be in this picture!"

"Who is 'he'?"

"Is it him?" Jen pointed to the man in the fishing hat.

Hawkeye's drunken mind caught on. "No," he said, quietly.

"Is it him?" Jen pointed to the man in a dress.

"No."

"Is it him?" Jen pointed to the blonde man.

Hawkeye was quiet for a moment. "Yes."

Jen regained composure. "Who is he?"

"He's Trapper McIntyre."

"Were you friends?"

"We were best friends."

"Why aren't you anymore?" Jen was beginning to sound like a cop interrogating someone.

"We grew apart."

"Were you fucking him?"

Hawkeye was flabbergasted. "God! No, he was like my brother! And, y'know, contrary to popular belief, I don't sleep with men."

"Why did you grow apart, then?"

"He…"

"What?"

"I found out he was with your father."

"When? When did you find out?"

"After he left Korea. He sent more letters to Frank than to me." He chuckled grimly.

Jen softened slightly. "Were they friends?"

"Are you kidding? They couldn't stand each other."

"Then, why?"

"Honestly? I don't know why."


	6. Sized Up, Sold Out

Title: Sized Up, Sold Out

Jen and Hawkeye stared awkwardly for a minute, but were saved by the bell. The telephone rang. Hawkeye straightened himself and answered it. "Hello? Louise? Yeah, it's me. Oh, you finally talked to him?"

Jen rolled his eyes and walked into the living room. From the obnoxious green sofa, he could hear Hawkeye in the kitchen. "How's this going to work out? On a plane? I don't think you could get him from point A to point B, without him… getting ill. Yes, he is quite sick. In fact, a plane would kill him. Well… he says he drank the water. Uh, hold on." Hawkeye stretched the phone cord into the living room. "She wants to talk."

Jen got up and took the phone. His body turned into jello. "Hi-hi."

"Dougie? Oh my word. We've been so worried."

The tingle of powerlessness spread through his body. "Heh."

"Where have you been?"

It was time to take the power back. "Jacking up with various vagabonds and having promiscuous sex with both genders."

Louise was silent. Jen handed Hawkeye the phone.

"Uh, I'm sure we can work this out. You just call me back later." Hawkeye went back to the kitchen, most likely to pour another drink.

Jen relaxed on the sofa, turning of the television. He was pretty proud of himself for saying that Louise. But he didn't realize that by saying it, he made it true.

For the second time in two days, Jen woke up on Hawkeye's couch. Hawkeye was standing over him. "Time to go, kid."

"Go where?" Jen asked, groggily.

"Shopping."

Jen coughed. "What?"

"You need clothes. You've been marinating those for what? Two months?"

"Fine. Let me piss first." Jen walked into the bathroom. When he washed his hands, he looked into the mirror. There was no color in his face. His hair was greasy and tangled. He could feel his hands shaking. Jen turned off the faucet, and wiped his hands on his jeans. He was getting a new pair. He left the room, and closed the door.

"Are you ready?" Hawk asked.

"Yeah."

"Let's went."

The corporate retailers looked out of place in the town. It was a Technicolor foreground on a black and white background. When they walked in, the fluorescent lights burned Jen's eyes. "How long has this place been open?"

"A couple months."

They trudged over to the men's section. All the clothing was stiff, fresh from the factory. Nothing looked like it was something Jen would ever wear. Hawkeye and Jen stood on the sidelines, silently looking at the racks of clothing.

"Do you know your size?" Hawk asked, still bewildered.

"Um…" Jen felt for the tag on his pants. It was pointedly absent. He twisted around to see his shirt tag, but it was faded. "Like, a large…or a small…or a medium."

"Maybe we can ask one of those kids in the vests to measure you." Hawkeye craned his neck in search of a salesperson. He spotted on. "Excuse me? Miss? Can you?" She didn't respond.

They let the store with nothing more than a dozen tube socks and a package of underwear.

On the ride back to Hawkeye's place, Jen let himself get sick again. He wasn't feeling particularly vindictive, so he managed to vomit on the side of the road—opposed to Hawk's sweater.

"You okay?"

"Magnificent." Jen slumped back into the car and closed the door.

He was surprised Hawkeye had offered him his old fatigues. Hawk had dug them out of the closet in his old room. They reeked of mothballs and age, like Jen's baptism clothes. When the phone beckoned, Hawkeye left Jen to try them on. The pants were a little long, but the jacket was loose enough to be comfortable. He walked over the mirror attached to the dresser. He looked good. Significantly better than that morning. His hair was still greasy. He had a good bit of acne. No five o'clock shadow, but he kept praying for one. He could do with a shower.

Jen took off the fatigues and put on his old pants. He didn't want to leave, in case his mother wanted to talk again. So, he sat down in the little oak desk. He looked at the myriad of accomplishments that loitered there. Second Runner Up in the Science Fair. First Place in the Botany Competition. Silver Medal at the Young Scientists Bazaar. Over-Achieving Drip Nominee.

After a few minutes, Hawkeye knocked on the door. "You decent?"

Jen laughed. "Dressed, but not decent."

Hawk came in. "That was your mom on the phone."

"What'd she want?"

Hawkeye sat on the bottom bunk, near the desk. "Well, kid, she talked to your dad, and they figured something out."

"I don't wanna hear about it; just tell me when it's time to go."

"Alright." Hawkeye got up to leave. Before opening the door, he turned to Jen. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Have you ever been to Boston?"


End file.
